" "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. Only promise me to amend—to quit your vile companions—and I will forgive you—will bless you. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin.
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